Embrace the Psychosis Part 2

“Visiting or checking in?”

Checking in.

“What’s the problem?”

I’m experiencing a break with reality and I’m a danger to myself.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I didn’t expect to be at Harborview. I thought we were going back to Northwest as it was much closer and we were traveling in rush hour traffic. It didn’t matter. The only reason I’d wanted to go back to Northwest was to show them all exactly what they had caused, but it wasn’t their fault, it was mine.

I sat down in the waiting room with my father and sister. He was on the phone with the psychotherapy clinic across the street. I had already had a phone interview scheduled to get enrolled in their dialectical behavioral therapy program. Unfortunately we kept losing signal throughout the hospital and the call ended without resolution.

My sister sat next to me trying to understand the gibberish I kept spewing between falling asleep.

“So who was harassing you?

Jubel! From the radio. They have an office upstairs.

 “I don’t understand what you’re saying they did.”

They have me under total surveillance. Cameras in the office, listen devices, they followed me everywhere.

“Why you? Did someone call them?”

Yeah! It was the nurses at the hospital. They felt bad for me, so they decided that instead of helping me they’d put me through a traumatic experience to break me of my addiction. Didn’t go quite as they thought since I just kept using.

“When’s the last time that you used?”

What time is it?

“7:30 am.”

Seven and a half hours ago. I made it through the night though.

My name was called by the triage nurse. I explained everything again as she took my vitals. She was kind and efficient, which we all appreciated. I believe that I’d met her before, the last time I came asking for help.

It was two month prior, during my first relapse since returning from Hawaii. I’d recently become homeless and alone. I didn’t stand a chance.

I’d called an old friend who had offered me sanctuary in the past. It had been nearly 24 hours since my last use and all I wanted to do was sleep. I’ve found that when that’s all I want, it’s the last thing that I’ll be doing.

I tossed and turned on his couch for three hours, becoming increasing afraid that there was something seriously wrong with my body. Abscesses have become a signature of relapse and infection a signature of abscesses. I could feel my addiction killing me slowly with every pulse through my arm.

I have to leave.
“I understand. Where are you going?”

To the hospital. I need a medically supervised detox.

“I’ll drive you.”

I’ll walk.

“I have to insist.”

So do I. I have far too much energy I need to burn off. I’ll be okay.

“I trust that you will. You’ll beat this.”

I will.

I slapped the pavement with one foot after another for five miles across the heart of Seattle. I didn’t stop for water. I didn’t stop for rest. But I couldn’t stop myself from using again.

It was 4 o’clock in the morning, when the city runs on methamphetamine. I knew anyone online was down to party, I just had to find someone with a clean point, which only took a moment. From the time I decided to use again and the time I pushed the plunger in only twenty minutes had elapsed.

There were countless excuses for doing it again. I wanted one last time before I quit for good. I wanted to calm down before going into the hospital. In the end I wanted to hurt myself again.

I arrived at the hospital just after 6 am, to find that it was largely abandoned.  

 “Visiting or checking in?”

Checking in.

“What’s the problem?”

I am addicted to methamphetamine and I need help.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I went through the whole process completely disillusioned that they could help me. I wanted to believe it would be like when I first detoxed on Oahu. They would send me to a forgotten place in the hills that I could go for a week away from all the distraction and temptation. What I wanted was thousands of miles away, just where I left it.

“What exactly would you like us to help you with?”

I am looking for a medically supervised detox.

“Where do you think you can get that?”

This is how I got it in Hawaii.

“Well, even if there was a bed available at any of the facilities here, methamphetamine doesn’t require medical detox.”

It doesn’t? Because having experienced it I’m pretty sure that it does.

“Not according to the state of Washington.”

Is there any way that you can help me? All I want is help.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

They didn’t even give me antibiotics for the infection in my arm.

Regardless of any previous encounters we may have had, the triage nurse was friendly enough. I should acknowledge that at this point my interpretations of what transpired is likely far more askew than normal, which is a far cry from fact at best. I remember everyone having a lemon tint to their aura and features that bubbled and popped in the light. It was like living in a candy commercial.

They asked about any changes to my insurance. I started to rant about how any of my expenses should be forwarded to Movin’ 92.5 care of Jubel in the morning. Luckily my sister was able to get them the necessary information.

I can’t thank my family enough for all the help they gave me during this time. 

I was moved to a bed in the ER. They took my vitals and a variety of doctors came to interview me. I was falling in and out of sleep. It reached a point where I was given the impression that they were not going to be able to help me and my disposition changed dramatically.

I could feel my mood shift immediately from cooperative and even jovial to pure rage. My lips pursed without warning and everyone was against me.

See this is what I was telling you about!

“What are you talking about?”

You see how the nurses move to where they think I can’t hear them and then all start laughing. They’re mocking me.

“I don’t think they’re making fun of you.”

Why did they all look over here and then get very quiet after I said that? I can hear you!

“Calm down, these people are here to help you.”
These people have never helped me before. They sit me here only long enough to get a few laughs. ‘Look at the lowly addict, can’t help himself. Hahaha.’ There isn’t help for people like me.

“I hope that you’re wrong.”

Something I said or did was different this time, or maybe it was my sister. I was transferred to Psychiatric Emergency Services (PES) in a surprisingly short amount of time. They moved me into a small room that appeared to made of metal and echoed sounds furiously. At first I was alone so I slept.

When I awoke there was sound all around me.

My back is cold.

“Your back isn’t cold.”

“Twitter twat, dinkle damp.”

“Has he ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

I’m not schizophrenic, wrong personality.

“So you’re saying there is a family history?”

“Not exactly.”

I see you.

“Oh, he’s a smart one. He already found the cameras.”

 “They’ll feed you Crayola and kindness.”

My back is cold.

“Your back isn’t cold.”

You can’t change my reality so easily.

Time moved in a circular pattern, unhinged from the gravitational pull of the sun. I fell in and out of sleep. Or maybe I was awake the whole time. I don’t remember the doctor coming in.

“Good morning.”

Is it still morning?

“Yes it’s 10:30 am. Do you know where you are?”

Psychiatric ward, Harborview hospital.

“Do you remember why you’re here?”

I had a complete psychotic break with reality. Judging by the number of echoes I’m hearing I may still be.

“Yes, it can be a bit chaotic in here. Do you remember how this break occurred?”

They changed my meds, then they wouldn’t call me back. I told them I was uncontrollable. I told them.

“Told who?”

My therapist, they won’t let me talk to the psychiatrist.

“And what exactly are they treating you for?”

They won’t say. Current working theory is Borderline Personality Disorder, I fit all the criteria.

“Do you find comfort in that diagnosis?”

Yeah, I guess I do. At least then I know how to start to solve the problem. Everyone has been saying I’m depressed, but I don’t feel depressed. I cycle between anxiety and anger, but not depression. Good thing too, more motivating this way.

“Anger can be extremely motivating. Where do you want to go from here?”

I want to go to ATS, out on the Pali Highway. They helped me before.

“I’m not familiar with them.”

They’re on Oahu, they can’t help me here. I just need a place to be for a few days. And I want my old  meds back.

I fell asleep again at some point, possibly mid conversation, I didn’t care. When I awoke there were two chairs being brought into my room. I had visitor, my sister and brother in law as I was told. When they walked in the door I realized that was merely a ruse to sneak in an old friend of mine. I was grateful too, I didn’t really feel that I needed to see my brother in law.

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

I’m delusional, in a psych ward, after a week long meth binge. How are you?

“Haha, yeah. You hanging in there though?”

I’m here.

“Well, we wanted to talk to you about what’s going to happen next.”

“We think you should considered going back to inpatient.”

I’m not going to have this conversation here. I’m just going to blindly tell you no.

“Okay, we can talk about it more later. We need to go talk with the doctor for a moment. I’ll check in with you before we leave.”

I was asleep when they left.

Unfortunately, I have to wrap this up quickly. I was discharged from PES after receiving a round of IV antibiotics to Crisis Solution Center. They were then unable to help me with anything more than a bed for three days because I already had a mental health provider. Once out I connect with my medical clinic and they were able to get me back on the medication that worked.

The reason for this hasty synopsis is that I just found out that a bed is available for me. I decided that going back to inpatient is the right choice at this point. Hopefully I have a better experience than last time.

Thank you again to everyone who’s helped me along this journey. It’s far from over but we’re starting to make progress again. I’ve told you all along that I’m going to be okay, I still believe that. 

Embrace the Psychosis - Part 1

It has been months since I’ve updated this blog and much has happened, far too much for me to relate in a single post. I have relapsed, twice. I’ve also become homeless, twice. It’s impossible to deny a connection, though one doesn’t always happen first.

Last Friday I was admitted to Harborview Psychiatric Emergency Services. It’s unfortunate that it took a complete psychotic break before I was able to get the help that I needed. It was a week ago today, Wednesday, that I first went to the hospital for help.

I had started using the day after Thanksgiving. The holidays are never a good time for me. They used to be, but something changed when I came out. They went from being a time for friends and santa suits and merriment, to the time that reminded me most of what I’ve only wanted to forget. I find that instead of being surrounded with friends and family, I’m isolated or seem as baggage.

There were a number of reasons why I relapsed for a second time. I was struggling with a change in medication, there was conflict at home, etc. But what it all came down to was my reality became uncontrollable and I made the decision to use again.

The problem is when I start using I don’t know how to stop.

I went through the weekend thinking that everything was completely under control. I had nothing to worry about, I’d only slammed once, I’d just ride it out and life drops back to normal. But soon enough it’s on to the next scene and everything is starting all over again. The sex is as hollow as the head of a rig and just as necessary to achieve the full desired effect: self-harm.

I am an angry person.

There are times in which my anger erupts, much like you’d imagine a volcano. I can feel this pressure building over time and have yet to find a way to release it in a healthy fashion. It is a rage so incredible I cannot pretend to control, and I am afraid of what might actually happen if I just let it out. So instead I hurt myself. It has nothing to do with getting “high”.

It then feeds into itself. Compounding the pain with fear and shame. I remember realizing that I’d lost everything I’d been working towards and that hurt so I used. I couldn’t face my sister because of what I’d done and that hurt so I used more. I didn’t know how to stop and that hurt so I kept using.

After five days of this I had enough and wanted nothing more than for someone to help me. I had told my family the night before that I wanted to go to the hospital and be admitted to a psychiatric facility. As the situation stood I was an imminent danger to myself and as such needed protection from myself.

I arrived at Northwest Hospital around 9am, walked up to Emergency admissions and said, “I am a danger to myself.” I don’t think I ever fully admitted that before and I found it comforting.

I had done a hit just 3 hours prior, in an attempt to sustain the euphoric effects long enough that I wouldn’t change my mind. They had determined that while my pulse was slightly elevated, the rest of my vital signs were admirable. Much to the amazement of the nursing staff, I lied down and calmly watched TV while I was waiting to speak with the social worker on staff.

My dad arrived but was kept outside of the room and the social worker asked to speak with him before coming in to see me. I don’t know what was discussed, but I assume it was explained that I relapsed after having complications with a newly prescribed med. I would also guess that they discussed that we were no longer working under the presumption that I am bipolar, but instead suffering from a personality disorder. If nothing else I’m sure it came up that I’d been injecting meth for five consecutive days. In the end, it was enough that the social worker decided not to come back and speak with me personally.

Another half an hour or so passed by and I could see that he was apprehensive to come speak with me. Northwest is a small hospital and the ER isn’t much to write home about. From any of the room you could see the entire unit. I remained calm and waited, though I was getting increasingly agitated.

He then came into the room and, in a move that still confuses me today, asked my father to leave. I wish that someone else was there to hear this conversation:

“What are you hoping to get in coming here?”

I need help, I am a danger to myself.

“You’re going to kill yourself?”

I can’t stop using and that is going to kill me.

“There are lots of people who don’t know how to stop using and they do it everyday. Maybe you’re just one of those people?”

I don’t want to believe that or I wouldn’t be here. There has to be somewhere I can go for help.

“There isn’t your insurance won’t cover it.”

But I’m a danger to myself.

“I don’t think you’re going to walk out of this building and kill yourself. What means do you have at your disposal?”

I’m not trying to kill myself but I am doing it.

“Unfortunately there isn’t anything we can do to help with that. You just need to stop shooting meth.”

So you’re just going to discharge me and that’s it.

“That is all I can do.”

I have had hospitals tell me no before, repeatedly in fact. Each time it happens it builds on all the anger from the time before. Mix that with all the methamphetamine and my blood was boiling through my skin. They quickly returned my belongs and as soon as I had my shoes on I turned and walked out the door.

It was dry outside, cold but not quite freezing. There were skies pock marked with fluffy white clouds just beyond the evergreen trees in the parking lot. The glass doors slid shut behind me and I couldn’t help myself from clutching my sides in a sort of backwards hug. I held that position as I could feel every muscle shake and every nerve scream. Then I ran.

I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be as far away from that place as I possible could get. I stopped briefly to clutch myself again upon leaving the hospital campus. I could hear the voices of the nurses laughing at me. I could see their faces mocking me. I cried. Then I ran.

I was nearly a mile away when my phone rang. It was my substance use counselor, Rae. Of all the various professionals I have been seeing on a regular basis they’re my favorite. They kept me on the phone and tried to calm me down. I recognized that my body had made a distinct shift from being controlled by the clear to being controlled by panic fueled by clear. It was a terrifying experience and I had trouble focusing on anything.

They kept me on the phone long enough for the initial wave to subside. I then realized that I had left my father at the hospital. I called him to tell him that I’d left, which he had recently been informed by the staff.

I had no idea where I was supposed to go. I knew that I needed to stop but still didn’t know how I was supposed to do that. I went to the only place that I felt like I could hide, the office my father shares with a lifelong friend of his.

The office was empty when I first arrived. I locked the door and lay face down on the floor and I cried. I cried so hard that by the time I realized what was going on I was in a pool of meth polluted tears. And then I slept.

It wasn’t long before I awoke, maybe twenty minutes. I tried to compose myself the best I could, which wasn’t very well at all. My determination to quit had meant that during the entire course of my relapse I never had more than what I was going to do immediately in my possession. I knew I had to find it so I sat at my desk and then immediately began my ritual for locating the next hit.

It didn’t take long before I got in contact with an old dealer with whom I had spent a fair amount of time with a year prior. He was looking for something to do and that meant one thing. I threw a couple of things into my backpack and left as soon as he gave the confirmation.

The bus ride there took me just over an hour. The whole time I was trying to convince myself that I should just go to sleep, but that argument was always met with a voice that said, “You don’t have anywhere you can sleep.” And it was right.

I’d been staying in Kent with my sister before the relapse. Things weren’t perfect but we’d been making it work. I knew that when I choose to use again I jeopardized that situation and wouldn’t be able to return until I found sobriety again and even then it would take a fair amount of grace on their behalf.

My best option for a place to sleep was the same floor that I had been sobbing on. There were no pillows, no blankets, just the tightly woven carpet that you find standard in most offices. It would be hard to find sleep there without the abundance of ice in my veins, with it was impossible.

I was encased in a reality of pain, anger and anxiety. There was only one option that I could see and that was to use. So I continued on to the house that I was all too familiar with and proceeded to make a series of terrible decisions.

The worst of these decisions happened very shortly after arriving. The place was a total mess. I could tell that we’d be cleaning for at least an hour before anything happened. He received a call and the focus shifted from cleaning to finding. Somewhere in the chaos was a vape pen that needed to be found immediately.

After twenty minutes of searching I located the desired object.

Is this it?

“My God! Yes! That’s the one.” He took in a long drag and passed it back to me. He spoke in a way to minimize any exhaling, “You should hit this. Hold it in too.”

Okay, sure. What is it?

I was mid toke by the time he replied, “DMT.”

I’d had one experience with the drug in the past, shortly after I gave up meth in my youth. I was at a party in Thurston County and to say I was drunk would be a gross understatement. I took one long breath off the pipe that could have just as easily been filled with meth. I then lost consciousness.

I’m told that I immediately stood up and ran into the wilderness that surrounded the house. I disappeared for twenty minutes and when I returned had no memory of what had happened to me.

My experience this time would be much different and last days not minutes. It came about in such a way that it wasn’t until days after my psychosis that I even remembered the ill fated decision. For those of you that don’t know, DMT is a powerful hallucinogen, one that makes LSD seem more like marijuana. As can be expected my memory becomes incredibly hazy at this part.

I know that we slammed, three times, in the next six hours. With my brain reeling and my vision less than reliable I made what would become my second great mistake of the evening. I hit an artery.

It wasn’t just any artery either, but the one that serves to provide the majority of the blood to my right arm. I remember a light red colored dragon shooting up the syringe and thought it strange in color but was not able to process that I should stop and reset. I plunged the hit in and could feel it bulging under my skin immediately.

Fuck.

The pain was all I can remember. The other two people in the room chuckled slightly,

“Aw man, you missed.”

I didn’t miss, I hit an artery.

“Well you’re going to need another one…and a doctor at some point.”

So I prepared another shot and promptly hit my other arm. This time with the desired results. I lost control. I’m not even sure what I was doing but it must have been thoroughly bizarre as both the other people started laughing hysterically, which only fueled my growing paranoia. Flight filled my thoughts and I ran again.

I didn’t want to get on a bus, so I continued north on foot. From every passing car I could laughter and fragments of conversations all mocking me. I fled into the darkness of the park at night in hopes of escaping, but the tree themselves took up chorus and continued the ridicule.

Soon there was music. It was coming from everywhere. The cars on the highway. The shrubs and roots. The very walls within my mind all echoed the same maniacal circus music with the words, “You are covered in poop!”

This continued all the way from Greenlake to Shoreline. I was convinced they were following me and had established themselves outside of the office, where I was again retreated to in hopes of sanctuary. I was terrified and crying. I wanted only to make it all stop. I called the police.

Now many would thing this a bit extreme, given the amount of drugs in my body you might think I’d want to avoid any kind of police encounter. However I didn’t have any drugs outside of my blood and I figured that if nothing else the police could answer a question I desperately needed to know, was I really covered in poop?

Three squad cars arrived, one of which seemed to be in charge.

“Good morning sir, what seems to be the problem?”

I’d like to start by saying I suffer from mental illness and addiction. Unfortunately I am in a relapse phase after having my meds changed.

“Thank you for your honesty, it’s rare.”

All I want is help, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

“How can we help you?”

Do you hear music? Carnival music?

“No, sir, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

It’s followed me all the way back from Greenlake.

“I’m sorry to tell you that I think it’s all in your head. Do you hear it now?”

No, actually I don’t. They must have seen you arrive.

“Where did you hear it coming from?”

Over in that direction and around the corner here. It also seems to be coming through the vents in the office.

“Are you able to consider that it may not be real?”

I’m not sure you’re real.

“Sir do you think you would benefit from going to the hospital?”

I went to the hospital, they couldn’t help me.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I was too.

“Well we are going to stick around and see if anyone comes back here, however I think that you would do well to just ignore whatever it is that you’re hearing and come morning make an appointment with your mental health professional.”

Okay, thank you. I really mean that. I appreciate your kindness and understanding.

“Well, I think that some people really do just want help. I think you’re one of those people, or you wouldn’t have been so upfront about things.”

You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that…from anybody.

I went back inside and tried to calm myself down. Now instead of hearing music I heard people talking in the room above me. It was a man and a woman, the woman was screaming about me. There was a malice and hatred in her voice that could not be dismissed lightly.

“This is fucking absurd. He’s just running amok in the building, completely unchecked.”

“Honey, there isn’t anything we can do.”

“We can talk to the building manager, this is bullshit. Stupid tweaker trash is calling the police here now. He’s probably shooting up in the office right now.”

“You don’t have any reason to believe that.”

“What about all the needles around?”

“You can’t blame him for that.”
“If he’s going to be here at all hours of the night, they need to pay more rent.”

“You can’t determine that.”
“No but I can tell the police he’s down there shooting up and just have him arrested.”

This went on for four hours. I wanted so badly to go to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes I could just hear them even more clearly. The vile and lecherous manner in which she spoke of me convinced me that it had to be real. Why would my mind be so callous and hurtful to me? But it wasn’t real.

I spent most of that Thursday attempting to accept that I was experiencing a complete break with reality. By this time my experiences had caused me to forget I ever took the DMT. Simply remembering might have helped me to understand why it all was happening. As it stood I was forcing myself to accept it all as my new reality.

I slept for a few hours in my fathers car, while he went to physical therapy. Then I went to the Northgate community center to make use of their shower facilities. It had been days since I’d had a proper shower and it would be longer as I failed to remember soap, though even a hot rinse made me feel somewhat more human.

I tried to sleep at the office again. The voices all returned. This time I was the target of a bad joke 

perpetrated by a local morning show. I believe that someone was leaving the radio on up stairs which was the origin of all my auditory hallucinations.

This is when the details all get very cloudy. As best I can tell I started to have an extreme panic attack. I wanted nothing more than the sounds not just stop and that caused them to intensify. Sleep was the only thing on my mind and the furthest thing from reality.

I knew that using would only make the situation worse in the long run, however I was very close to putting my head through a window and needed some way to calm myself down. I just had to make it through the night, til I wasn’t alone.

I spoke with my old roommate from Honolulu on the telephone. It reminded me why I miss her so much and why when faced with the same problem a year ago she was the one I turned to. She kept me alive long enough to get me out of the office and away from the source of all my current torment, or so I had believed.

I reached my suppliers house just before midnight. He was far more apologetic than I would have expected, I suspect he remembered the DMT I was forgetting at this point. I was there to recover a phone charger that I’d left, at least that’s lie we both allowed.

I wasn’t there for ten minutes before we were slamming. The scene was rudely interrupted by a pair of junkies who needed a place to fix their black. I am little respect for heroin users. Not because they’re bad people, but because they allow their lust for the drug to consume their character. I wasn’t surprised when one of them attempted to rob my supplier shortly after they hit.

I wanted nothing to do with any of them and they weren’t going anywhere so I left. I made the same trip home I had the night before. I was afraid it was all going to happen again, and it started to as I walked through the park. I stopped moving, took three deep breathes and said aloud, embrace the psychosis.

Embrace the psychosis.

When I heard a whisper in the distance, I waved toward it. When I heard voices criticize me, I took a bow. When they recoiled at the foolishness of my behavior, I river danced. I became all of the things I was afraid of becoming. It was liberating.

I danced and waved and bowed the whole way back. Laughing into the darkness at the absurdity of myself. I hadn’t had so much fun being high in years.

By the time I arrived the voices had named me their king. I was able to anticipate and own every attempt they made to crush me. I had embraced everything around me as I perceived it and in doing so I had won. They even admitted it and that’s where my victory turned to defeat.

The more they cheered on my embrace the more convinced I became that it was all real. I found a loop in the logic that forced me to believe that I was the target of a morning radio talk shows attempt to exploit the mentally ill for the sake of a few laughs. That angered me. And as I had embraced the psychosis, my anger embraced me.

The next two hours were filled with frantic running through the halls, where of which I’m not entirely sure. I was determined to catch the ones who were out to humiliate me. I ran upstairs, outside, in circles around myself. I knew that if I could catch even one of them that my reward would be the return of my sanity.

Such a reward was nowhere to be found and finally at 5:30 am I sent a text message to both my father and my sister.

I made it through the night. None of it was real. I just want to go to the hospital.